Sunny with a chance of Terror
by TheJauntyJabberwock
Summary: He's not sure if he wants to smother the sun, or bottle it. (I hate writing summaries, I apparently love throwing Crane at different women and seeing what happens. I wanted this one to be cute. We'll see if I manage. Written on mobile, please forgive typos.)
1. Chapter 1

**AN** : as usual I'm writing on mobile, so please forgive typos. Reviews make me prioritize updating that work faster. I'm trying something a bit different from what I usually do with Crane fics. We will see how it goes. I made up this phone number so please uh...don't call it. Sorry to who ever might have that number if it's real and someone does call them. _

—

The overcrowded convention hall was abuzz with bodies, movement, excited chatter. A swarm of people in all shapes and ages and sizes, flowing this way and that. Even the sun had appeared through the usual haze of clouds, to warm the streets surrounding the convention center. Here, there was no refuse, even the homeless seeming to have been scurried away into shelters or otherwise incentivized to leave the immediate area. Tourism was in full swing here, and the city needed that tourism. So they had worked very hard to make this part of the city friendly. Open. As normal as they could. After all, what city didn't have a bad part of town? Here, the people were safe.

Or so the Mayer had foolishly promised, with the increased security and the construction changes he had made to both the center and surrounding area. It made the towering figure in the crowd smirk, as he worked to weave his way through the press of over heated bodies. A river of people prevented him at from continuing past a cross section, and this too only made him smile. He moved slowly around to the side, near a wall, to admire the inability for mobility. They were not prepared. The coming panic was going to be a massacre. Everything was already in place. Very soon now-

"Excuse me, yes, hello," he paused to look down at the girl waving to get his attention with a frown. She had a natural tan that needed no sun, the makeup on her face not quite covering the dark area around amber eyes successfully. Her long black hair was pulled into a thick braid, and her clothes were a sensible black ensemble of dress and suit jacket, tights and low heels. Edward would have been able to identify the dress as Armani and lipstick as Chanel lip laquer 154 instantly, but Jonathan Crane saw only what the clothing was supposed to present. The same thing as his own costume, polite and impersonal professionalism. Her panelist badge read "Maia Badi". Without hesitation she read his own badge and launched into an effortless conversation. She had no accent, her upbringing obviously more local.

"Sorry, I see you're a panelist too, Professor Crane, and I can't make head or tails of this map." he found the item in question all but thrust into his arms,

"I don't suppose you can tell where panel room..." He was about to chide the woman for interrupting him, when her attention switched from his person to someone in the crowd. A narrowed gaze he could almost take for a lion seeing a wounded antelope. His own attention followed her gaze without thinking, seeing a young girl stumble as best she could away from the crowd to the wall near a hallway that lead further back into the building. The girl had the unmistakable physical tells of terror, and he had to focus to keep from hissing. Had one of his canisters sprung a leak? It was too soon to have his position revealed.

"Excuse me." She moved away from him and through the crowd with a surety and ambition that made those around her instinctively let her pass. He watched the graceful creature go, wondering how she did it, and realized she had left him holding the convention map. With a sullen hiss he began to wade through the crowd towards them, in part to make sure his plans wouldn't be ruined. And in part out of curiosity. The woman had zeroed in on distress in the middle of a crowded hall the way a shark smells blood in the water. It was...intriguing.

He couldn't hear them over the buzz of conversation. He saw her shake hands with the younger girl and motion to move over to the hallway where one of the caches of his toxins were hidden. Waiting to be released. He moved all the faster, until at last he was close enough to make out the words. The younger girl looked maybe nineteen at best, her muscles tense and ample chest fighting for oxygen. Failing, by the looks of it. Her words were near feverish.

"-my anxiety medication ran out. Stupid, I know-" Maia hushed the younger girl with a soothing voice.

"It's okay, Amanda. You're not stupid, you're having a panic attack. I have them too. Here." She placed her phone in Amanda's hands, he was tall enough to see a shape on the screen that expanded and shrank.

"Focus on this. Breath out when it shrinks, in when it opens."

"But what about-"

"Breathe. It's going to be okay." The girl nodded and tried to focus, sitting down on the thin carpet floored in garish blue colors. Maia was so focused on the situation herself she didn't notice him standing there, joining the girl in sitting, folding her skirt under her as she sat on her legs.

She had them too. She must have recognized the symptoms of an on-coming attack in this child. Not a lion running to wounded prey, but rather to an abandoned cub. She knew to pull the girl from the crowd, and had an assisting app pulled up without thought. She had done this before. After a few minutes Amanda started to breath more normally.

"T-thank you." Maia took the phone back with a warm smile.

"Would it be okay if I texted you this app? In case you would like to use it again? Do you have some friends with you today?"

"I...yeah. We got seperated is all. I can text them to meet up. I think I'll be okay now. Um, my number. 512-859-6547. Thanks again, you didn't have to do that. Usually people just kind of-"

"Don't care. I know. Things are changing though, you'll see. There. And now you have my number, too. If you need anything at all, please don't hesitate to text me, alright?"

"Sorry I'm such a mess. I'm glad you were here."

"No need to apologize, I-oh!" She finally noticed Crane, who held up the map.

"You left this behind." He calmly interjected. If body language could show a blush without color hers did it.

"Right! I was looking for..." She had to dig through the laptop bag at her side, finally drawing out the folded schedule of panels.

"Room B12-C."

Keeping with his cover, his beady blue eyes skimmed the map, and he pointed to the location for her.

"It's down one floor. Right here." He pointed as the child busied herself with a flurry of fingers to produce texts to her friends. He only gave Amanda a cursery glance to the side. It didn't look like the effects of even a small dose of his toxins were present in the child. Good. His plan was still secure.

"You didn't say what you are presenting on, Miss Badi." Her face light up with an excitement that instantly made her look at least five years younger.

"Today, I'm covering for Professor Garber's Magic Spirituality and Religion lecture." He raised a sharp brow. That was...not what he anticipated.

"Cultural anthropology." She provided.

"I know the area of study. I was expecting you to be more in line with my field. Psychology."

"My friends are on their way. Your panel sounds pretty cool." Amanda's smile had small dimples, and Maia returned the expression gladly.

"You and your friends are welcome to stop by. It's- wait, what time is it?" She glanced at her phone in sudden panic, yelping and jumping up to her feet.

"There's just enough time! I-wait. Are you going to be okay until your friends get here?"

"I'll be okay." Maia didn't look so ready to abandon her post.

"I'll stay with the child, if it's alright with both of you, until her friends get here." Maia looked to Amanda for approval and got a nod.

"Okay. Text me if anything happens, okay?" Amanda gave a dutiful nod, and Maia turned that dazzling beauty pageant worthy smile back to Crane.

"Give the professor here my number if he wants it, we can finish our conversation later if he likes." A solute from Amber, and Maia waved at the two and all but ran to her panel room.

What a trusting individual. He wasn't sure what to think other than the woman was clearly an idiot. An idealistic idiot who went out of her way to help a complete stranger. An idiot who didn't have a professorship but could sub for a professor at this convention. Cultural Anthropology. What a joke of a "science". He wondered how well a mind like that was going to hold up when his toxins turned this place into a nightmare. He wondered if she would survive. She had them too, she had said. Panic attacks. But what ever about? He collected that phone number after all, if she did manage to survive it would make the following interview that much more interesting. Amanda tried to be friendly and ask him about his panel. He made something up as if he would be around that long, and her friends came to collect her. Which left him to make his way from the building.

Accross the street, he checked the panel schedule. She would be in the middle of it now. Up in front of a room full of people. His first bomb went off. There was a panicked shout as people instinctively ducked, herd reaction despite no one here being near the small blast. A lull of silence. The other bombs went of quickly, small things that they were, and accompanied by the thick green smoke of his toxins rolling out the doors, all hell broke lose. Predictable. He had seen it so frequently by now. He checked his cell phone, logging into his mobile bank account. After two minutes of refreshing the page the money was there. He smiled with a hum, a successful day, and idly paused on the contact added in. Why not? He typed the words: "It's professor Crane. Are you okay?" He smirked, and set the phone in his pocket. If she survived, it would make a follow up conversation that much more interesting. And if not, oh well. The world was never kind to those so neive and easy to trust a stranger. He glanced up at the sun as he walked. It was still shining.

Never mind the cloud of death and destruction he left behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

Hours passed. He had almost forgotten all about the convention massacre, his mind on other soon to be pursuits, when his phone gave a chime. It was a text.

"I'm alive. Did you make it out?" She survived. How? He immediately wanted to know every detail, it was rare he had an opportunity to follow up with a subject after an event of this size. Then again, if he seemed too eager it may tip her off. He contemplated for a moment and then typed a reply.

"I forgot a book in my car. I was in the garage when it happened. I'm glad you're alright." He didn't have to wait long for her response.

"It was a mad house. You're lucky." Yes, lucky. He couldn't help but laugh outright at her choice of words, muttering out loud "you have no idea." His fingers danced across the phone screen.

"I saw a lot of people being taken to the hospital. You're not injured are you?"

"No. I'm fine. Are you local or did you fly in?" Oh. He hadn't thought of that. If the girl wasn't from in town, he may need to secure a more time efficient manner of interview. Something with more...permanence. He would need to act fast.

"I'm local. Would you allow me to buy you dinner before you leave? Seems like the least I could do, if you're up for it tomorrow?" Too forward? Too much? Offered too soon? He didn't realize he was holding his breath until the phone pinged a reply.

"I doubt I'd be good company at this point. But then a girl's got to eat." She was thinking about it, at least. His fingers hovered over the keypad, trying to decide how best to reply. If he pushed too much, it would literally push her away. Before he could find the right words, the phone went off again.

"Sure. That sounds nice actually." His smile was less radiant and more a jagged crack across an aged face, but it slipped into place easily as he sent a time and location. She aggreed.

"I hope you're able to get some rest tonight." It might be her last opportunity for some time to come.

"Thanks, back at you." He let the conversation die out. There was much to prepare before tomorrow.

—

The small family run Italian place wasn't selected for the food. Oh the food was decent, don't be mistaken, but more importantly it was near one of his labs. Getting her there would prove not very difficult, even if he had only had a single day to plan for it. He could have simply had her grabbed on arrival, true, but he wanted to know how much he could get out of her in a more lenient environment. Understanding how a subject behaves in a relaxed environment prior to introducing new stress factors could prove a useful control.

He was early, of course, though she herself was dropped off five minutes until their agreed upon time. He noted that she had not driven her own vehicle, this might be even easier than he had anticipated. Maia wore an ankle length dress in a soft black fabric, red flowers painted across it in sweeping designs, the sleeves reached her elbows and her hair was still pulled back into a long braid. Modest, the colors suited her tanned skin.

She reminded him instantly of a classic painting, soft and striking at the same time. The professional attire had been designed to make her appear more petite, but the casually draped dress revealed a figure worthy of the classics she had brought to mind. Her smile wasn't as bold as it had been prior. The events of the prior day had clearly held an effect after all. When she moved closer he could see the dark circles around her eyes were deeper set. He doubted she slept at all. Then again, neither had he. He didn't clean up half as nicely anyways, age and a life fighting heroes or living in asylums had not been kind to him, never mind the disguise of normality he was wearing now.

"I never caught a first name for you, Professor. And I know many professors, I might get a bit confused." Oh, right. Dare he give a real name? She already knew Crane, it would be easy to shed the disguise altogether with his real name given.

"Our meeting was touch and go. Matthew."

"That's not much better, I know at least ten Matts!" The laughter was back, as she extended a hand to properly shake his with some youthful vigor.

"Good to meet you more properly, I suppose using your last name would work best if that's alright?"

"Perfectly fine. Shall we?" Her expression warmed up all the further and spine straightened, she stepped through the door he held open with a nod.

"This isn't too far from my place, actually. Not walking distance, but not far. I might be a regular if it's any good. If not, we know who to blame." Himself, evidently.

"I thought you were waiting on your plane?"

"You'll notice I've said no such thing." So she hadn't. He had assumed.

Table for two, they were led into the establishment and settled down into a booth. It wasn't incredibly busy. Three other tables held occupants at this hour. His eyes scanned the location, hers watched him.

"Are we all one of your experiments?" His icy gaze snapped back to her, testing if she knew precisely what she was saying, but her posture was still relaxed instead of guarded.

"Perhaps. Is it wrong to desire understanding of your fellow man?" He provided.

"If it were we would both be in trouble." The smile returned to his face as the waiter came by to collect drink orders.

"Hi, my name is Michael and I'll be taking care of you tonight. Can we start out with any drinks? Appetizers?" Her chipper regard met him first,

"Tea, if you have it. I don't care which kind. Surprise me."

"Water will be fine for me." He glanced her way but she didn't express any interest in an appetizer, and neither did he much care for them. The waiter nodded and went to fill the orders. How long had it been since he had eaten out like this? True, he often grabbed food to go. But actually sat down? Before his criminal days. True, he had contemplated it when in disguise, but ultimately found his time and money best spent elsewhere. He wasn't particularly interested in the food. She, on the other hand, poured over the menu with some focus, before nodding and placing it aside.

"So, psychology? Which area of focus?"

"My studies mostly focus on the amygdala. The fear segment of the brain."

"Aaaah, terror, is it? An interesting choice. You might be disappointed you weren't there proper yesterday. Might have been good for your studies." He had to work to keep his common man disguise in place, lowering his voice to illustrate the gravity of what she was joking about.

"People died, Miss Badi."

"And we, are not among them. There's no sense in wasting an opportunity when it is provided, is all I mean."

"Silver lining?"

"So to speak. They call me aggressively positive for better or worse."

"So I can see."

"Suddenly having second thoughts on inviting me out?" Her expression turned intense, waiting, as the waiter brought their drinks. Having second thoughts? She said it as if that would be a normal reaction. As if she expected it. She was waiting for him to say yes, to get up and go.

"Not at all." He ordered the chicken Parmesan and she asked to be surprised with something sea food related. No food allergies to be concerned with. She received a warm chamomile tea for her beverage gladly. Their waiter left them and he picked up the conversation.

He leaned in, palms on the table, lowering his voice to stay between them. Her own posture stayed relaxed and open, back to the booth comfortably.

"Is that truly how you feel?"

"I feel we must often make the best we can out of tragedy." He let that settle. The silence didn't bother her. His full focus didn't make her flinch, shiver, or shrink away. Even oblivious strangers often knew enough instinctively to do so, but she was truly dense. He broke the silence and leaned back into his own seat, his voice coming in the smooth lulling notes he reserved for therapy sessions.

"Then perhaps you would not mind enlightening me with your own experience. If nothing else, discussing such events openly can aid in addressing them. It's never good to bottle something up."

"You're not my therapist, you know." It was light hearted, sipping at the steaming liquid in her cup,

"But I suppose there's no harm.

I was in the middle of my lecture, and tried to ease the crowd with a joke. As that green fog rolled in, I asked who had jumped ahead to our segment on witches, which got a chuckle at least. When it hit us things got...peculiar. I could tell right away it must have been laced with a hallucinogen, the process is not unfamiliar to me. I tried to play it off as an interactive segment, describing the oncoming trance state, as if it were a planned shamanistic experience." Now that, was an interesting reaction and approach. Something new, to be sure, that he had yet to hear any of his subjects describe or think about. The interest was written on his face as plainly as it laced his voice,

"What happened?"

"It didn't work. I shouldn't be surprised. No offense, but most white folks and city dwellers aren't equipped for a spiritual experience that intense. They devolved into madness, and I knew better than to try further. I crawled under the stage in the front and waited out the bad trip outside of their notice. Eventually paramedics and police arrived to restore order."

He had to take a minute to digest all of that. So she treated it like a spiritual experience? She knew to go somewhere she wouldn't be noticed or hurt, somewhere the others wouldn't think about looking. She had experience with hallucinogenic drugs, and from the sounds of it had handled his usual public dosage with a practiced ease. It made him positively itch to test her responses to heavier doses, see for himself how far she could go. She didn't say she was unaffected. Only that she waited it out.

"I am not familiar myself with what you are describing." He had to admit, spiritualism was out of his area of expertise. She only smiled.

"Of course. The lecture I was supposed to give today was on shamanistic influences in modern medicine. It's not exactly a popular area of study outside of cultural anthropology, in part because anthropologists are some of the few academics interested in acquiring knowledge about people from the actual perspective of said people, and in part because the people making bank on modernized medicine don't wish to acknowledge where those ideas actually originate or who they have disenfranchised in order to make profit."

"Alight, but how does that play into your view in the events of yesterday? I very much doubt most of the other survivors would describe it as a spiritual experience."

"That's because most people think only of recreational drug use for trance states, and in those only value the happy or fun experiences. They don't have the upbringing or cultural understanding to appreciate the value in overcoming the frightening. Shared trauma can promote growth beyond what someone thinks they can handle, and it can bring people together like no other experience. Assuming people don't flee into isolation, of course, or make the mistake of relying upon those without the experience to be able to empathize."

He stared at her. She finished her cup of tea and poured more hot water from the small metal kettle that had been provided. That was...both a view he had considered and yet an approach he had not. It was as if she was putting words and methods to what he had always fundamentally understood on a base level. At last he found some words,

"You think yesterday's events were a positive?" He had the pleasure of watching her actually bristle, the subtle tremor under her skin drawing her lips into a tense line.

"Theoretically? Shared trauma _can_ unite and strengthen a people. In application here? Those targeted were not prepared, and not given the appropriate aftercare. It was a simplistic act of terrorism." So she had some bite after all, it wasn't all sunshine and rainbows. A more interesting turn of events. He wouldn't call it his best work, but that was an acceptionally harsh judgement he was not accustomed to being told so directly. Simplistic? It clicked why quickly.

"You're bitter the convention was canceled." He observed. Her voice raised with the passion behind it,

"The convention chair is a coward, we worked too hard to be shut down so easily."

"And if the terrorist was to show up a second time?" Her amber eyes narrowed to slits.

"I do not live my life in fear of what if."

The intensity and fire behind her composure made the waiter clear his throat before approaching them, as if asking if he should interrupt. She settled back to her social smile quickly enough to let him drop off their food, and he looked particularly glad she liked the dish. And would not be sending a solar flare in his direction. He was quick to scurry away. She failed to notice.

The two settled into food, she approached that with as much enthusiasm as seemed to be her normal setting. A stark opposite to his cool composure.

"If something like yesterday's events are little more than bothersome to you, I confess to being curious. Just what are you afraid of?" He waited to hear her boast that there was nothing that could stop her. Perhaps to dismiss such a direct line of inquiry. She yet again surprised him,

"Public speaking is horrifying. Talking to new people. Large crowds. Dating. Walking alone at night. The inevitable timing of death. Lots of things scare me."

"Half of what you mention is how we met."

"I wasn't aware this was a date." The grin she gave him was playful and devious in equal parts. It evolved into a laugh and light brief touch of his hand, he wasn't sure himself what expression his face had given her, if any.

"I'm joking! You really should learn to relax. Unless you did mean this to be a date. In which case...cheers? And maybe I shouldn't have talked your ear off with academia..."

The most subtle shift in posture was all the clue he got that she was suddenly uncomfortable. It was easy to miss for someone who might not know what they were looking for. He did. So decided to grasp onto that angle.

"You wouldn't be concerned with the age gap?"

"I usually date older men, actually. You're, what, forty? Forty-five? That's only a ten year difference max." He may have let his disappointment slip into his expression for how easily she bantered back.

"You really don't express your fears outwardly, do you?"

"I don't let them control me is all. Life is too short." She finished her plate and set it to the side. He followed suit.

"I wonder, would you allow me to examine your pulse? Test a theory." She raised one brow.

"For science?" He nodded his head once. She considered it. As she had accepted his initial invitation, she held an arm out, palm side up and fingers curled into a loose fist. His reached out slowly, deliberately, and felt the pulse beneath his thumb. It was racing, fast enough that he expected her to be short of breath. She wasn't. Only the pulse gave her state away.

"Social anxiety?" It was less question and more diagnoses, she nodded and moved to retract her arm. He held firm only long enough to earn a glare of warning, which made him smile and release her wrist.

"Panic attacks?"

"Three to five times a day. Minimum. Sometimes they last for days at a time."

"And yet you can discuss it with some ease." She shrugged.

"Life goes on. It's just the physical symptoms. I know logically it's a chemical imbalance, so act accordingly."

"As you knew the hallucinogenic haze was just a bad trip."

"Precisely."

His posture must have reflected his intrigue. She grinned and finished her second cup of tea with a satisfied hum before he continued,

"Most people are not equipped with your level of self-aweness or control."

"Compliment accepted. And I've noticed. So what about you?"

"What about me?"

"Don't tell me you're a workaholic? Your entire focus on the sciences with little time for play or hobby?"

"Scientific advancement _is_ my hobby."

She frowned with another hum.

"I thought as much. You take yourself very seriously. You know what they say about all work and no play." She pulled her phone out and typed away. Seconds after she set it down his pinged an alert. He looked to see she had sent him a time and location for two days from then.

"What's this?" Her smile returned.

"A challenge. I'm picking the next date, and that's it." He frowned at the phone, then her.

"I haven't agreed to another date, and this gives me no information on what to expect." Her smile only doubled.

"So this is a date? It's only fair I pick the next one. I'll be there regardless, but if you have no taste for adventure I suppose I will have to make due without you." It was very much a challenge, and she had gotten him to call this gathering what it was not supposed to be effortlessly.

"If you'll excuse me, I'll be right back. Let you think it over." She rose to head in the direction of the ladies room, which left him to think.

She was open, without remorse, willing to hand him the information he requested willingly. She was intelligent after all, if socially dense and far too trusting. She wasn't cured of or immune to fear, but clearly had advanced in the lessons he had attempted to teach society further than most managed to survive. She insulted his latest work and challenged his resolve all in the same sitting. How to best reply? How to best proceed? He was no longer hindered by the previously conceived time restraint. His fingers were typing the text before his mind had been fully decided. When he looked down he had already typed for his two waiting goons to take the night off. Change of plans. Well. Speaking of self-awareness. He hit send. Looks like he had a mystery date in two days time.

The bill came, another reminder for why he didn't usually waste his time on these kinds of things.

"I'll cover the next event, assuming you show up." She was still perfectly comfortable around him, or looked like she was. The playful jest naturally rolling off her tongue.

"I noticed you were dropped off. Do you have a way home?"

"I appreciate an observant man, but you haven't quite earned that yet. My ride is just pulling up looks like." She glanced at her phone for confirmation, and added quickly,

"This was nice though. Maybe I'll see you soon, psychology."

"Is that really going to be my nickname?"

"Do you prefer Frankenstein?" He laughed. He couldn't help it. The noise bubbled out of him before he could swallow it down, and when he glanced over her expression had gone delighted.

"It is possible!" She breathed it in a dreamy air, and leaned up on tip toes to kiss his cheek quickly before heading out the door. He wasn't sure how to react, and was given no time to regardless.


	3. Chapter 3

AN: reviews are lovely and make me prioritize works. :)

—

The days flew by quickly, and he had no idea what waited for him here. It was a small red door in a big brick wall. He double checked the address, glancing both ways. This was a suspicious location. A trap? His nerves were on edge in preparation for it, up until he saw her round the corner and walk his way.

"Oh," she paused in surprise before breaking into a confident radiance, "so you came after all." This time her peasant skirt fell down to almost brush the ground around her, a long sleeve shirt above it and large scarf draped around her like a shawl, and the same braided hairstyle. This time the colors were a swirl of dark blues, peacock greens, and purples, the tappistry of fabric so intricately woven he dare not attempt to unravel the patterns.

She moved up to him and held a piece of printed paper up.

"Your ticket." She informed, paying no mind for the way he felt himself staring at her, and doing him the courtesy of not mentioning it either. The moment he reached out hesitant hands to take it, she brushed past him to open the door.

"Come on, then." Brilliant white light poured out from the door, he found himself trailing in after her with the printed ticket up to protect his eyes.

When his eyes adjusted, he found himself in a well lit studio, easels set up in a large circle with paint and brushes ready. The floor and walls were all stark white, or were meant to be, but drizzles and splatters of color had given the space a haphazard vibrancy. On the far end was a table of wine glasses and several beverage options, and another table held still more paint. In the center of the room was a cluster of blocks, fabric draped over them, a cow skull rested between two elevations, and a potted ivy dropping down the opposite side of the highest point. Several people had already claimed glasses and easels, and were chatting among each other with cheerful and polite regard. He blinked several times, both to recover from the change in lighting and to determine what he had gotten himself into.

"Welcome to painting with a twist! First time?" He was greeted by a wide smiling doorman, a stalky fellow with short dark curls and a lot of chest and arm hair showing past his short sleeved shirt, who took his ticket and quickly scanned it with a phone.

"Matt, meet Professor Matthew Crane." She introduces them and he received a hardy handshake he barely had time to return.

"Welcome! Grab a drink and pick an easel, and don't worry. No one here's Picasso, we just like to have fun."

"I can tell from the floors." Crane returned, and got a deep bellies laugh from Matt.

Painting. Why? As if she had read his mind she provided her reasoning.

"I said you need to learn to relax a bit. Have you painted before? Acrylics are pretty simple for starting out, and you can get as creative as you like." She pointed at an elderly woman with messy silver hair pulled back into a bun as best she could. The woman was hunched over from age, but as vibrant as the others gathered here. It was as if winter had blown in on a warm summer day, he may as well have been a gust of arctic wind to the abode. But no one here minded. No one noticed.

"Miss Grace only does Pointillism." Before he could protest she was sweeping him forward, his back stiffening but feet reclaiming their own function.

"Miss Grace," the older woman interrupted Maia,

"So good to see you again." She reached for a hug that was easily granted, and turned to peer up over her spectacles at Crane,

"Who is your handsome accomplice?"

"Professor Crane, ma'am, how do you do?" He bower at his waist and offered her a hand, which made her beam at him with affectionate approval,

"So well mannered! Just delightful. You are welcome to set up beside me, if you like. I can't promise not to get distracted if you do." She have a playful wink holding no actual intentions, and he yet again found a smile on his lips.

"I look forward to seeing your work, ma'am." She gave a hum of contentment and shuffled towards her easel.

As far as challenges went, this one was simple. He had grown up in what was still considered the South, social etiquette was easy to navigate when he cared to. Though it was true he had never tried his hand at the task before them.

"May I get you a drink, Maia?"

"Sure, surprise me. I'll pick out our spots." He found himself chuckling,

"You certainly enjoy culinary surprises."

"It's the best kind there is." She returned.

He ventured to the drink table, and no one here suspected him. No one whispered about him. No one looked upon him with suspicion or fear or distaste. It was sunny here, and warm, and he was welcomed in instantly. That alone set his nerves on edge, but he acted like he belonged as well as they had allowed him the opportunity to. The glasses were all wine glasses, there were a few reds and two whites, he picked a red without much checking the label. If his taste was being tested, he had little regard for it. Or for pretending such things mattered to him.

"Here we are." He brought them back, and noticed she had set him up directly in front of the skull. How thoughtful.

"I notice," he took the time to lean in towards her, "that you never mentioned a reward for my rising to this challenge of yours." She grinned, all teeth,

"The experience isn't reward enough? Alright." She turned back to the room and raised her voice to those gathered.

"A challenge!" The room turned their attention to the two with polite regard and moderate interest.

"You each shall be the judges! Should my painting excel, I demand payment!" She had to stop from the sudden stage show to ponder that, "If I win..." a devious little grin took her lips, "you have to use some of your vacation days. For an actual vacation. No science! A full day!" He snorted at the price,

"Very well, if I win you have to cook a diner for our next date." She blinked, confused on his choice, so he elaborated.

"I have yet to see you make a decisive choice about food. If you are cooking, you will have to chose."

"And if you take an entire day off work, you might go crazy."

"I shall do my best to refrain from breaking under the pressure." He held out a hand, and she shook it firmly. Matt sighed out,

"Must you make everything a competition, Maia?" Her smile was all the answer she provided, turning to her easel and setting to work with a zeal.

He turned back to his own. How difficult could this be? Acrylics. They dry fairly quickly compared to other mediums, he believed. So he knew that much at least. He naturally decided to make the skull in front of him the primary focal point. He was not entirely without creative measure, after all he had often created his own wardrobe for his line of work. And his reading selections, contrary to some popular belief, had included a good deal more than simply academic texts or horror novels. His brush met the canvas in soft gentle strokes, precise and without a single touch of quiver in his hand. His entire focus set to the task before him, and those they shared the room with would occasionally glance their way. The colorful woman, animated with a subtle passion that surrounded her in a glow of joy, and the calculated man beside her moving with practiced ease and a gentle patience.

He almost didn't hear Matt call out only thirty minutes remaining. There was a time limit? He took note of what remained and knew he could make it in time. How long had they been there? He had been so focused on the task he wasn't sure. The drink beside him hadn't even been touched. He had to admit, he could see the appeal here. He felt...relaxed. Even under the deadline and with the challenge in place. Not to mention his painting was looking pretty good, if he said so himself. A confident smirk placed itself upon him as he returned to the realm of utter and complete focus. He stepped back with two minutes to spare, and at last picked up his glass for a sip. When he checked the time on his phone three hours had passed.

"Alright! Reveal! And remember, there is no wrong way!" Matt declared, and as the artists present each turned their canvases, he felt suddenly dropped into a well. The paintings all ranged in style, color, interpretation, but the undeniable skill behind each made his heart sink and a lump form in his throat. Matt had rendered a romantic rendition of the scene before them, with blending that almost seemed impossible. Miss Grace had created an effortless design that as far as Crane was concerned belonged in a gallery somewhere. Some of the others weren't quite as brilliant, but he still felt immensely outclassed. He turned to see Maia's and couldn't breath.

Her work was an explosion of design, intricate swirling patterns, a labyrinth that created the whole. The colors were as vibrant as her attire, in fact matching her outfit perfectly. The skull was laughing, or singing perhaps, and the flow of color around it almost created an impression of sound his brain automatically tried to pick up. A whistled tune out of the desert, something distant and familiar, but it faded in the wind as quickly as a mirage. If he had to guess, he would think something that complex should take eight hours at least. He was defeated. He was sure of it. His own piece was a play of shadows lending only a hint of style to the realism he had elected. He felt he might have had a better chance going completely interpretive, or perhaps with fingerprainting. It would all have been the same: defeat.

"Votes!" She declared, ignoring his mumble of accepted reality. He was startled to see the first individual point to his work, giving a humble bow of acknowledgement. The next pointed to hers. In the end, it was actually equally divided, all coming down to Matt. Miss Grace had voted for his piece. Matt looked more thoughtful, allowing the air to hang thick with game show worthy anticipation. At last he asked,

"Is this your first time painting?" Crane considered if that were a trick question, but nodded. It earned a heart-felt smile that made wrinkles appear at the corners of his eyes.

"It's really good. Maia really backed you into a corner here, didn't she?"

"Not my fault he accepted blindly." Her defense was meant to be good natured jest, but he filed it away for later. Matt just grinned, and pointed to Crane's piece. Victory was...unexpected. But he turned back to her with a cool smile.

"So. You owe me dinner now." She made a show of an exasperated sigh, but the corners of her lips gave away that she didn't mind.

"I'll get you next time, Gadget!"

"I thought I was Frankenstein." She just shook his hand.

"Good game. Any food allergies?"

"None."

"Then I know just what to make. Are you free tomorrow?" He raised a brow.

"I didn't know you were capable of such decisiveness."

"You know nothing, John Snow." He shook his head, but couldn't seem to maintain as much usual ice in his composure.

The group exchanged some polite chit chat, commenting on each other's work with the same gracious positivity. No one offered critique unless asked first. He was unaccustomed to this level of...this. It made his skin crawl, his muscles itch with the drive to either run or fight. Which was...fascinating. One couldn't read these emotions from him, for all appearances he was calm and polite and smiling. But he knew better than to think this was anything but a fleeting moment between passing strangers. They could take their paintings home, if they wished. He did, taking pride in it.

"Will you allow me to escort you home this time?" He would offer as they exited.

"It's walking distance."

"Alone? After eleven? In Gotham?"

"What did I say about living my life in fear of what ifs?"

"There is a difference between caution and recklessness." She laughed, but gave a nod.

"Alright. Though you won't see the inside until tomorrow. You were free? Seven pm?"

"I am." She took his arm, but guided the way. As they walked her lips hummed a gentle tune, something he didn't recognize, but it surrounded them both with a well practiced depth of deliverance. This, too, he found himself swimming in, bobbing along, until they were climbing a set of stairs up to a second story in an apartment building. She paused at a door, two-eighty-three, and whirled once her keys had unlocked it. The humming halted. His head was still dogged over.

"Tomorrow then." She raised up to give, as she had before, a peck of a kiss on his cheek. This time he accepted it for what it was more readily, a lopsided grin on his face, and wondered what she would do if he returned the favor. Would he burn his lips on the ball of sunshine? Did he have that boldness in him to try? His hand trailed up to grip her upper arm, her eyes met his and she made no move to stop him. His heart pounded against his chest, the familiar tightness of breath he had felt only once before. Then it had been a mixture of teenage adrenaline and hormones, down in that dark basement with Sherry Squires. Then it had all been a cruel joke, his very breaking point. Who would jump out this time? Who was waiting to laugh at him, for daring to think anyone would show such innocent interest in the monster he had always been?

He found himself leaning down, and she didn't pull away. He felt the smallest hint beneath his grip that she had stiffened, felt the barest tremble slip beneath her skin as he grew closer. She didn't run. No one leapt out at them. She didn't pull away. Her lips barely parted, as his face moved closer to hers, and he saw her eyes flutter shut. He stopped less than an inch away, smirked, and adjusted to kiss her cheek. It didn't burn. She opened her eyes when he pulled away, and gave a mischievous smirk. His voice remained calm, despite how desperately his stomach fluttered.

"I shall see you tomorrow." He stepped away. She slipped into her apartment, careful not to let him see what was behind the door.

—

AN: Finally. I'm managing to write something cute with him. Sixth times the charm I guess? XD anyhow I love feedback. Where y'all think it's going next, impressions so far, what I can work on going forward to make my writing better, etc. :)


	4. Chapter 4

**AN** : got another chapter to write, then will likely switch over to one of my other projects. I have too many stories going at once yet started this one up. Whoops. Sorry-not-Sorry.

—-

"Something's wrong with the boss." The first henchman whispered it, the second giving a questioning look.

"What do you mean?"

"He's been...smiling a lot more. I swear I heard him...giggle." A shiver ran up his spine at the memory, but the other well muscled brute only smirked.

"That just means he's confident. What ever he's got in the works is going to be good."

"Greg, it's _terrifying_." Greg rolled his eyes.

"You'll get used to that around here, Dave."

"Indeed," the voice cut out behind them and almost made Dave scream as he whirled with a jump. The Scarecrow only chuckled,

"You'll grow accustomed to the way I do things in time. Don't think my side project has distracted me from the current objective. A task for you, gentleman."

He held out a folder, and Greg took it with more easy practice than his coworker. He skimmed over the contents, dark eyes under darker short cropped hair regarding the spindly man. If Greg wanted to, he could break Crane in half with little effort. He was a tall man at seven foot five, but muscles from his military days had still remained. Marines. They had an understanding, though, and Greg had been loyal for three years now. A running record. Crane had arranged for the man's paid loyalty even while he was incarcerated, and it had served both of them well.

Greg scanned the document with a sharp wit and nodded in short order.

"I'll see to it, Professor." Crane nodded, and turned to go back to his lab. Greg turned back to Dave.

"Don't go letting him know you're spooked so easy, or you're not going to last long here. Now come on, we've got a job."

"What are we doing?"

"You, are doing exactly what I tell you to do." Dave wasn't a huge fan of that, but knew better than to argue. He nodded twice, and the two men left.

—

Crane arrived exactly on schedule, he had memorized the location and apartment number without any conscious effort. The walls of these apartments weren't sturdy things, he could hear music drifting out already, and singing. Her voice rang out clearly, resonate and contralto. He stopped to listen for a moment, but he couldn't tell what language that was through the door. When he knocked, the singing stopped.

"One moment!" A few breaths later and the door opened, a waft of scents mingling around him from the opening. Sandalwood incense, and the aroma of freshly cooked food. This time her peasant skirt was simple, an apron over it from cooking, her top long sleeves, and hair as ever pulled back. It finally clicked, the word tumbling from his mouth,

"Gypsy?"

Her welcoming smile turned into a sharp frown instantly.

"That's a racial slur." It was said with the tried patience of frequent repetition. He had no idea, but could detect her displeasure enough to know he ought to be ashamed of the word he had used.

"My apologies, I was unaware."

"Most are." She stood in the doorway, the fall of skirts making her seem an immovable mass within the frame, before she shook her head with a heavy exhale.

"The word you are looking for is Romani, and I tend to favor my father's side of the family. Hopi." She still didn't budge from the door, regarding him with a serious expression he had yet to see on her heart-shaped face.

"If you call me that word again, or make any other racist remarks about my people, I will cut you out of my life faster than you can say genocide. So. Do we have a problem?"

For the second time since meeting her he felt the threat of an oncoming solar flare, this time rooted not in quick emotion but in a deep-set history that made him think of a statue. Carved from the earth, set so deeply into the ground that mankind could not move her no matter what force they applied. They would have to go around. Or get out of her way. The smallest voice in the back of his head wanted to see how far this would go. The wiser half of his brain opened his hands in show of being unarmed and spoke with reverence.

"I am deeply sorry to have offended you. It seems there is much in this area I am unfamiliar with, and I can assure you I take no interest in the limitations racism and bigotry place on the human mind." He almost added, we are all human beings, but opted not to voice that out loud. He had seen such sentiments get better men than he into boiling water. She regarded him quite seriously, but the earth-solidified stance melted with an accepting nod, and she moved aside so he could enter.

"This is not a topic I wish to lecture you on. I'm aware most folks have no idea, just...don't call me that."

"I won't." An awkward beginning to the evening, but she let him pass the threshold and seemed eager to move on from the unpleasant topic. So he let it drop. There were more natural ways to grow to learn about someone beyond quizzing them with a hundred questions.

The small apartment was warm from the heat of the kitchen. She had several bookshelves filled to capacity, an easel set up in the corner of the main living room with paints ready and a tarp down below it. Woven rugs lined the floors, there was a small couch but no television. A bluetooth speaker on the kitchen counter was playing music he did not recognize, voices singing softly in a language he did not know. He found the stick of incense burning on the small table near the kitchen, four chairs squeezed around it. There were already plates laid out and silverware. What little wall space she had held several of what looked like her own paintings up, and the tops of the bookshelves held pottery pieces he now knew likely came from the native side of her family.

Altogether it was cozy. There were two doors in a small hallway, one closed must have been the bedroom, the other open a restroom likely.

"If you're finished psychoanalysing, food is ready." And plated. A fish fillet, some seasoned rice and a mixed green salad with raddishes. Simple. Healthy.

"I believe it's customary to bring some kind of contribution." He held up the bottle of red she had seemed to approve of the other night, and she took it readily and twirled to get glasses.

"So it is-wait," she was on her tip-toes to rummage through the top shelf, but glanced back at him, "don't tell me you're not used to this sort of thing?" She didn't see the glass pushed from the shelf until it fell, he dove forward with a long arm to catch it just in time.

"You did call me a work-a-holic. It was an accurate examination." He smoothly returned, setting the glass down on the counter. She hadn't flinched for the falling object and dismissed the event as quickly as the conversation at the door.

"Well then, I'll try not to disappoint."

In short order she had the bottle open and two glasses poured.

"I didn't expect you to go to this much trouble-" she cut him off with a hush,

"I enjoy hosting, don't take this from me." He chuckled as she moved to the table, and pulled her chair out for her.

"Then perhaps I should have come up with a different reward for my victory."

"No take backs." He moved around to his place across from her, though he could easily reach his arms almost all the way across the small table, and settled in. She seemed content to examine him, waiting for him to try it, her chin resting on steepled fingers and elbows on the table. The fish flaked perfectly, and only fell apart further on his tongue.

"Triple threat." He murmured.

"Pardon?"

"Intelligent. Gifted in the arts. Attractive. Triple threat." She only began on her own plate, making no move to agree or disagree.

"It makes me curious as to how you've remained single, Miss Badi." Emphasis on the Miss.

"From the sounds of it, you haven't given dating much thought either."

"I rarely meet someone of interest."

"And I'm not sure if I should be flattered or insulted by that." But she chose to laugh.

"But no, I've dated. It just hasn't worked out in the long run." She shrugged her shoulders, then continued,

"Well if your whole life has been work, tell me more about it. Unless you have non-work details to divulge?" She sounded doubtful. The food in front of them was swiftly made work of, leaving their glasses to sip at.

"What is there to tell? I grew up on an old farm in the south, raised by my grandmother. The area and inhabitants as a whole were...less than pleasant. I turned to my books early, moved on to college, and have pursued a life of scientific study ever since. Hardly the most interesting topic." He spoke it with the steady drawl that could put students in lecture hall asleep, eager to allow her to glaze over it and move on. Nothing to see here. But she nodded along and looked interested anyways.

"Some similarities then. I mostly lived with my grandma on the rez." Reservation. From what little he knew, not the best opportunities afforded.

"If I may, how did you get into academia?"

"Some of us are pretty big on getting public education out there, it's hard for folks to care about your rights if they think you're all dead. I worked at the tourist trap education hall for a while as a teen, met some anthropology professors, did some traveling and learning about other groups too, started applying it all together. Don't need a doctorate to help educate the world." Another shrug of shoulders. Something came to her mind then, a flash of excitement.

"Before I forget again! I have something for you! Well, something to borrow. I'll expect it back." She stood and moved around the table, scanned one of the five bookshelves, and plucked three books from the shelf.

"This should give you a basic idea. It's not perfect, but should help." As she had the day they met, he found the items thrust into his arms without pause or apology. Three books all on shamanism, it looked like. He opened the first to a random dog eared place and found notes sprawled into the spaces on the edges in mechanical pencil. She was one of those, it appeared.

"I didn't bring you anything." He admitted.

"You brought your company." He glanced up, and for a split second that could have been a few hours, he felt normal. The illusion wove itself around him, that he was just a man. In an apartment. With a pretty girl giving him her undivided attention not as a joke, but because she wanted to. With her standing and him sitting, she just managed to be taller than him. He began to lean in for a second time, slow enough that she could withdraw from him if she desired. She didn't move, or close her eyes this time. She stood her ground, watching him. He didn't make that contact. In his chest he felt the twist of thorn ridden vines wrapped around his heart, and heard a voice in the back of his head.

 _Don't be stupid. You're not normal. Never have been. She's going to run for the hills the minute she finds out what you are. That's why you gave the fake name. She doesn't even know your name, Jonathan._

He heard the words, but his hand was moving without his command, fingertips brushing the back of her hand. The skin was soft, warm, and he had to yank himself backwards. He closed his eyes and focused on breathing, until his words could come calm.

"I'll admit to finding myself tempted." But would say no more than that.

"Shall I retract my offer? Take these back then? I'd hate to lead a good man astray." He felt the pressure of her hands on the three books and placed his traveling hand more firmly over hers to stop her.

"I am not a good man."

"Why not?" He opened his eyes, her hand fit into his easily, entirely covered.

"You're too trusting."

"I can't help my nature."

"It's a good way to get hurt."

"That is the one lesson that never sticks." His other hand moved up to the back of her neck, under the braid, bold ambition. She didn't pull away. Or let him pull her forward. The fire in her eyes were set to the delight of a challenge, the way they had sparkled when the two of them had competed. Immovable carving of stone, he would have to go to her. His body began to rise up to join hers, but instead he pulled his hand away.

"Always such careful control." She hummed, the smirk on her lips flirtatious, "One of these days you'll cut lose."

"What can I say? I'm old fashioned. And, regrettably, did have other plans this evening. Diner was delightful, my dear." He stood, she took a step back to let him, but he kept a hold of her hand. Brought it up to place a kiss there, catching patchouli scent on her skin. Smokey woods instead of feminine florals. This time he consciously committed the subtle perfume to memory. She stepped forward, placed the usual kiss on his cheek, soft and quick. She retreated more slowly, daring him to claim what he clearly wanted. He could swear he felt the vibrations in the air between them, the strain of tension weighted all around him. Around them. Instead of a firm press, he tilted his head just so that their lips could only brush each other as she pulled away. Jolt of steam, fire meeting ice, a shiver running through both of them with the passing touch.

It left him smirking. Her with the usual relaxed poise.

"I will see you soon, my dear."

"I would certainly hope so, old fashioned." They shared a laugh for how frequently his nickname changed, and he was still smiling several blocks away with the books in his arms.

 _It isn't going to last. You know this can only end in-_

"Oh shut up. I'm enjoying myself."

 _That, is exactly what makes this so dangerous._


	5. Chapter 5

Things were finally pulling together, and The Scarecrow was far too busy to pay his new side project a visit while the plans fell into place. He had tried to keep in touch through texts, but not done the best job of it. He was no teenage boy, he would not be found waiting by a phone or getting distracted by text messages. For her part she didn't push or show teenage weaknesses in the form of being too needy for attention either. The exchange of words came infrequently, but enough to keep in touch. The one thing he would grant, is that she messaged him reminders to eat. If he only checked the phone once in a day, it always read "eat. Drink water. Workaholic. :p" and brought a brief smile to his lips before he returned to the tasks before him.

Unfortunately for him, he was checking such a message at precisely the time _she_ walked in.

"My my, professor, but you do look pleased. Distracted. And pleased." The sultry voice filled the room instantly, He glanced up to see the long red tresses draped over foliage clothing and green skin.

"Pamela. To what do I owe the visit?"

"You know perfectly well why I am here." She snapped her fingers, and a trail of vines dragged in a tightly bound man. He sighed.

"You were told to be more careful, Dave."

"But my babies still caught him. Rummaging through my garden. Shall I keep him? See what songs this bird will sing?" Scarecrow waved a dismissive hand with a bored expression on the eyes peering out of the burlap.

"If you so desire, my dear." Dave made a series of sounds through his vine-gag and tried to struggle free pitifully. Neither villain paid him any mind.

"What I want, is to know what you're up to."

"And why would you want that? You don't have your own projects to keep you busy? You are, after all, a formidable mind yourself Doctor Isley." She smiled, purred, but he knew better than to think she was appeased.

"Such sweet words from a silver tongue." She was moving towards him now, a sway of hips that kept him cautiously rooted in place. One does not run from a rattling snake. You wait for it to pass along it's way.

"I wonder if you can use it as well in other things? Perhaps a kiss will warm your lips, enough to get them moving." He held up one hand.

"I'm flattered, my dear, attention from you is something many men would die for. But I'm afraid I must pass on your offer." She paused in her advance, eyeing him wearily.

"Then I'll take your employee as fertilizer." As she said it the vines began to tighten, cut off circulation. The Scarecrow didn't even blink.

"If you see fit." The two kept unblinking regard for each other as Dave struggled to breath. Began to turn colors.

After a few minutes she sighed and the vines loosened.

"What were you after?" The henchmen gasped loudly to fill his lungs.

"Why do you care?"

"I'm curious. You silly man, you could have asked me."

"Since when are you so accommodating?"

"Since it suits me to be." Fair enough. He turned back to his desk and withdrew three sheets of paper from the scattered collection. He held the drawings out for her and she recognized them instantly. The wheels in her head turned.

"Now why would you want...oh. Oh!" A devious smile curled her lips.

"You delightfully wicked man, I believe I can see what you're doing."

He had meant it when he called her intelligent. Most thought of her as only good looks and deadly toxic appeal, but he knew better than to make such a simple mistake. From three drawings alone she had identified the specimens and puzzled out which combination of chemical attributes he needed them for. A dark little laugh bubbled out of her,

"Now that will be interesting. I suppose I could spare a few. For a price." She sat down, the vines rearranging Dave to force him to a position that allowed her to use him as furniture.

"There's a meeting taking place in three days. I want each of the men attending to face their deepest, darkest, most desperate of terrors. That's your territory." Each word was a seduction, a whisper of lust-filled promise giving her voice power.

"And why don't you wish to take care of this one?" Always be suspicious when a rogue hands you a good deal. She laughed.

"That, is my price. Do you accept? I'll even give you back your, what was your name again?" She glanced down at her makeshift chair, "never mind. I don't care." He considered it. Pamela was not a woman to upset lightly. Nor did her temper often come with an easy path towards forgiveness. It had him intrigued as to what was so important about this meeting of hers.

"Very well, I accept."

"How lovely. I'll send your pet here home with those samples. Well, home with half of what you need and information on that meeting. When it's done, come by my garden and I'll be delighted to give you the rest."

"Don't double cross you?"

"And I won't double cross you." He bowed at the waist, never breaking eye contact, and she nodded. Stood. And left. Dave drug right behind her. Scarecrow frowned down at a leaf that had been shed, left behind. Luckily for Pamela, he was a patient man. He could tack on another task before judgement day fell upon the city. Dave, however, did not look like he was cut out for this line of work.

—

Maia wasn't the kind to pine away after a person, or to grow upset by their absence. She had books to read, papers to write, and coffee to consume. Which brought her to the local shop, standing in line with a stack of five textbooks in one arm and a messenger bag slung across one shoulder. Her skirt swished around her feet when she paused into place in line, brushing the tops of her sandal clad feet and making her smile. As ever her clothes were woven designs of color and design, today's ensemble hosting the weight of hundreds of tiny beads sewn in to the designs.

She waited in line with a hum, her eyes scanning the small shop for a place to sit once her drink was ordered. It was a bit busy this morning, but it looked like a few chairs were as of yet unclaimed. She tried evaluating the line in front of her to guess how many were staying, or going on their way to work.

The game was short lived and she wasn't very good at it, but the playing brought her turn all the swifter.

"Good morning! Pleasant day, isn't it? May I have something sweet, with coffee, in a large size? Surprise me, I like it all." The barista politely tried not to look annoyed with the lack of concrete order,

"Grande mocha alright?"

"Sounds great. Maia for the name."

"That'll be $8.50." With a nod and the reflex of long time muscle memory Maia reached into the tiny front pocket of her messenger bag, unzipping it to withdraw the card.

"Oh, wait, this is my ID, one moment." She shifted her weight to try again.

"Work badge...one moment, I know it's here, sorry." She began digging in earnest, which made the books stacked in her arms begin to topple, before a firm hand kept them from falling.

"Quite a handful here, I can cover you if that's alright?" The deep voice belonged to a deep chest, muscles evident under broad shoulders. They didn't match the boyish smile he was giving her, blue eyes and dark hair, a square jaw. He was the kind of handsome that probably could cause a car crash if he tried.

"Oh, that's alright. I know it's here somewhere..."

"Please, I insist."

"Well alright, I suppose. Thank you." She shifted her weight to collect the books better and stepped aside for him to order.

After a fashion he came by the pickup side of the counter.

"I'm Maia, by the way. Least I can do is introduce myself."

"Bruce." He had a firm handshake, but not so firm as to set her books loose in the process, "Are you a student at the university?"

"I outgrew simple flatteries in my twenties." He raised a brow and spoke again,

"I didn't mean any offense, just seemed like that or you might be a professor there."

"O-oh. The books. Sorry, I thought you were doing that thing where a man implies a woman looks younger as a backhanded form of flattery. No, this is my own project." His laugh was amused without being mocking,

"Far be it from me to try to keep up with an intellectual."

"Oh, don't cut yourself short! People can do remarkable things when we set our minds to it. One moment, don't go anywhere!"

She hurried over to a free chair and finally set her materials down on it, drawing out a pen and notebook from her bag. She jotted something down and ripped the page out, bringing it back to him.

"Here, this is a wonderful place to start! Anyone can follow the theories laid out, and this book does a great job of helping you figure out what you'd be most interested in pursuing next. Knowledge is for everyone!" He blinked at the sheet of paper, but took it as offered.

"You put a lot of faith in a stranger."

"Is there some reason I shouldn't?"

"I guess not. I might need your phone number, in case I don't follow it too well." She laughed instead of taking offense.

"Oh you have had practice at this, haven't you? Do most women go for that?" He shrugged his heavy shoulders with the same youthful grin.

"I regret to inform you your efforts are wasted, I'm already seeing someone. Well, sort of. I suppose. Enough to not be flirting with you."

"Lucky guy, I know when I'm defeated."

"He's a psychology professor. No offense but that's a bit more my speed." He froze, tension hitting his posture, but it never reached his voice.

"I know a few of those. What did you say his name was?"

"Matthew. But I keep giving him nicknames." The tension smoothed out of Bruce's shoulders and they shared another light laugh.

"Sounds like a good match."

"Tell you what," she reached for the sheet he held, "I can't leave you floundering without a teacher. This is not flirting, mind you. Thank you can respect that?"

"I might be a play-boy, but I can accept a rejection." He gave a sigh but she could tell it was playful from his smile.

"Oh, you'll be fine! Goof-ball." He gave a slight bow, accepting her number under the book recommendation.

"But honestly, it's always nice to make new friends. I'll check out this book."

"And I'll answer if you have any questions."

Both names got called back to back, and he headed out the door while she settled into the chair.

"They always spell my name with a y..." she shook her head, and got to work.


	6. Chapter 6

Everything was in place already. Jonathan was quite good at this sort of thing by now, at laying low or using others to get his toxins into place. What ever Ivy wasn't telling him about this job, he figured he could avoid by keeping his physical distance. Why had she left the task to him instead of cleaning it up herself? He didn't know. He didn't care enough to investigate it to the fullest either. This was little more than a means to an end, nothing personal. Which is why instead of being there in person, he held the remote detonator from across the street.

As in directly across the building in an empty office. Binoculars allowed him to watch through the window as the men arrived. One. Two. Three. Where was the fourth? He stroled in last, radiating a dominant power that put him squarely in charge. The men sat, got started. His phone pinged an alert a few minutes later from his man inside. Doors were locked. Good. A press of a button had his fear toxin smoke bombs set. He watched as it began to fill the room. The inevitable panic. Call for help. Finding the door locked. It was all so...expected. Typical. Boring.

But the job was done, so it was time for him to leave. When had he grown stagnent? When had the thrill of screams and terror and mayhem become a dull drone to his senses? He supposed for some time now. Every time he gained a new test subject, incited public chaos, it failed to surge within him anything. He was an iceberg in the ocean, and so many fallen ships had grown monotonous. Society refused to learn his lessons.

Perhaps it was that mid-life crises he had heard of but thought himself immune to. Some men buy motorbikes or sports cars, what was a mid-life crisis for an intellectual? He wasn't sure. The thoughts muddled in his mind as he walked, until he looked up to see he had traveled some distance. A frown laced his lips. He was near Maia's apartments. Should he stop by unannounced? He was quite literally in the neighborhood. How would she respond to a surprise visit this evening? May as well find out, celebrate a job accomplished.

He moved towards the building, then up the stairs, and in short order found himself knocking on her front door. Which pushed open. A quick glance at the frame showed where the deadbolt had been split the wood of the doorframe. He knew what would wait inside, the complete disarray of books, couch pillows, a disheveled rug.

"Maia?" Perhaps his voice sounded too calm for this situation. A long legged stride across her threshold, sharp blue eyes quickly watched for anyone still here. There was a knife lost beneath the table, blood pooled under it.

"Maia?" He called out again, still hearing no response as he drew one of the gloves from his coat pocket and set it into place, ready to spray toxins at the first sign of danger.

He moved cautiously to the bathroom. Nothing. He opened her bedroom door, which appeared untouched, and found the bed inside still made up and the room pristine. No Maia. And who ever had been here seemed to be gone as well. Not a robbery, unless they knew what they wanted was in the living room. Had she been kidnapped? Why? And who would want to? Well, any number of people. This was Gotham. He stood in her living room and calculated out with a cold intellect what this could mean. Perhaps she had gotten away? She had no car to travel far with. He called her phone, waited, and heard it vibrate nearby. It had been discarded under one of the overturned couch cushions. No luck there.

He moved outside. Where would he run if he was being pursued? Down, obviously. Away. Jonathan was not a stranger to being chased by people ready and able to distribute pain, and he had chased his own fare share of deer over the years. He followed the path before him with a quick pace, down, to the right, to the left, take that turn ahead and- there. He had been running by the end, skidding to a halt and forcing his breath to come more steadily. His breath hung in the air between them, misting a small trail of ghostly tail.

She had her back to him, her dark hair cascading down her back in thick waves that fell past her hips. He had never seen it unbraided.

"Maia? It's jo-Mathew. Are you alright.?" He almost slipped up there. The eyes that turned back to him were hollow. The body followed stiffly. There was a gash on her neck that had stained her shirt collar crimson, but ultimately looked worse than it was. The dark area around her eyes made them look sunken, the whites red with strain.

"How long have you been out here?" She shuddered, and said nothing.

"Maia?" He took a careful step forward and she flinched. He froze the advance. Waited. Her breathing was hard and rapid, enough to cary itself easily to him. He slid the glove off his hand and back into a pocket.

They stood there in the alley between buildings, neither moving. The questions ached in his chest, struggled to overcome sensibility and tumble off his tongue. He choked them down, realizing she couldn't see him at all. Let alone answer him. He had seen this state in his test subjects many times, the distant stare and tight chested breaths, minds locked in waking nightmares. He stepped closer, and she remained rooted in place. He watched the subtle shifts to her breathing, the occasional shiver, noted the streaks down her cheeks where tears had fallen and the goosebumps which had spread over her arms. Her pupils were huge, with barely a ring of gold around them.

He had been curious about the girl's weaknesses, about exactly what someone with her approach was like wrapped in the coils of horror. Here she was, delightfully distressed and beautifully agonized.

 _But this isn't our work_. He answered out loud through grit teeth,

"No. It isn't."

A candle flickered to light in her eyes at his growl. Eventually, she looked up at him instead of through him. His spine straightened, letting her speak first.

"W-" her voice cracked and she had to try again, "What are you doing here?"

"I was in the neighborhood. What are you doing out here?" She glanced both ways, noticing the location for the first time.

"Oh. I think...I got away...I'm okay."

"You're bleeding." It took her a flutter of hands and eyes both to find what he meant, though the blood was already dry and scabbed over.

"That's alright. I'm okay."

"Are you telling me, or yourself?" She forced a smile.

"I'm fine. Sorry if I made you worry."

"What happened?" She shook her head.

"It's not your pro-"

"What. Happened?"

"I'm okay. It's fine. I'll be fine."

He let out a slow exhale, and held out a hand.

"Let's get you inside and let me take a look at your neck." Her arms wrapped around herself tightly and teeth began to chatter for the cold. She let him place a guiding arm around her shoulders, and he lead her back to her building. Up the stairs. She paused at the front door, broke away from him, traced her fingers over the split wood in the doorframe.

"Oh. Right." She had blocked it out. Seeing the state of her apartment brought what had happened there crashing back into reality. He watched her eyes dart around the room, and wondered what she would do when confronted with a true reason to be afraid.

Her home had been violated. It was no longer safe. She had clearly been attacked, a place of comfort and safety now a very real nightmare. What would she do now? He held his breath, and watched every minute twitch of muscle and micro-expression. Her words came as his had, when she paused in the center of the room. Cold. Remote. Distant.

"It's a power play. It was always about power." He closed the door, though it didn't stick. He leaned his weight against it to keep it from opening again.

"What is, my dear?" Wide eyes turned back to him, fresh tears leaving a trail down her face. She didn't look sad. She looked angry. So furious the fire turned to a calm blue light that stole the air from his lungs.

"You should go. You will not like what follows."

There might have been lightning in the room with them. Before he could speak he heard the distinct roll of distant thunder, followed by a rattle of the walls that let him know the storm blowing in was literal as much as figurative. His voice matched the tension in the air,

"Oh? And what will that be?" She blinked at him once, eye lids heavy, and turned away.

"This was a mistake. You should go."

"Yes, you said that, but here I stand still." He moved to pick up one of the toppled kitchen chairs, and brought it back to prop the front door shut. She made no move to stop him.

"Is that your blood? Pooled under the table? It looks deeper than the nick at your throat." She glanced back at it, and said nothing.

She also said nothing when he moved to start picking up the scattered books. Or when he put the couch cushions back. She stood in the center of the room, her hands clenching and unclenching from fists and silent tears falling. More thunder sounded outside. He slipped back into the bathroom and found her brush and plentiful hair ties on the sink countertop. She didn't resist when he gently guided her to sit on the couch, or when he ran the brush through her hair.

"It's alright to be upset. You could talk about it with me, if you like." His voice stayed level, even, a low purr. His long fingers began to pull her hair back and weave it into a loose braid. It wouldn't be perfect, but he knew instinctively she would not want it down.

He finished the braid and set the brush in her hands. He watched her shoulders move with every deep inhale and shaking exhale. While she collected her breathing, he moved back to the kitchen. Filled a bowl with hot water and grabbed some paper towels. He returned to her side and set to work on the blood around her neck, and found she still didn't protest. She breathed deeply, and stared straight ahead with flared intentions. He knew that look. He couldn't help but smile. She didn't notice.

Gradually, she spoke.

"This isn't your problem."

"I'm making it my problem." She shook her head, but he held fast, reaching out to place a hand to her face. She didn't make that motion easy, but he insisted she turn her face towards him. Her eyes stayed glued to the ground.

"Maia. Who hurt you? You know it isn't good to bottle things up."

"Or run from them." He waited, patience a virtue, and moved his hand away from her face. A few breaths later the words began to pour out of her mouth like an open wound.

"The law is a joke. The police do nothing. There is no justice and no mercy in this world." His eyebrows shot up to his hairline.

"That is the stark opposite of your usual disposition." She turned a glare to him that might have intimidated a lesser man and hissed, "you know nothing." He wasn't phased.

"Then educate me." She turned away again, her knees coming up to her chest.

"I'll handle this. It would be better if you didn't get involved. It would only put you in danger. I'll be fine." Stubborn. Always so stubborn.

"You might find I'm more capable than anticipated."

"I only got away because I stabbed him. He'll need a hospital. Then-" she cut herself off. So it was his blood under the table, the unnamed attacker she clearly knew personally.

She stood up, turned a matter of fact look at the apartment.

"I need to clean up here. Make a call. Pack an overnight bag until the office can fix that door." Practicality could often be a combat for panic, she turned to the tool expertly.

"You're planning to stay here? I'd say the location has been compromised. Sounds like this he, who ever he is, will return."

"Oh I'm sure he will."

"You're just going to wait around for him to come back? Jumping at every strange noise or gust of wind? Locked in a constant state of anxiety?" The roll of thunder sounded off again outside. A flash of light. Her response was a whisper.

"It's nothing new. I'll be fine. Please leave."

Fear and anxiety were a constant undercurrent, tugging at her ankles and pulling her down. She learned how to swim back to the surface, how to confront those feelings, how to throw on a smile to hide how desperately she was fighting. He had watched her head slip under the water, but she was still swimming. She'd been attacked in her own home, stabbed and escaped the intruder, and already refused to bow her head to the abuse. Refused to let a bully control or move her. What was more? She was concerned about him. She didn't want to drag him under with her. She had no idea who she was truly talking to, she just didn't want him to get hurt. Or think less of her for what he could see was clearly coming next.

The rain began to fall outside. Heavy drops on roof and windows.

"I'd like to help you."

"You've been wonderful, but I suggest you take the fond memories and move onwards." He stared at her, not sure what to make of the finality in her voice.

"...are you...breaking up with me?" Had they actually been a couple to warrant such a thing? Neither of them had said much more than having had a few dates. It wasn't as if they had expressly stated as much. And yet this felt like she intended to put an end to what he had barely considered a beginning. He didn't like it. Though his face remained reserved, he disagreed. She spoke first,

"There is no future here."

This time he hissed the words with a sneer,

"Not anymore? Just like that?" The look she turned back to him was startled, he continued,

"It's insulting of you to assume I'm so weak as to flee from this situation myself." Realization dawned, she quickly tried to argue,

"That's not what-" He held up a hand to regain the floor,

"Sometimes it's wise to run, to survive to fight another day. You've done that tonight. Now you expect me to run from you? From what you're choosing?" He leaned in and lowered his voice to punctuate the severity,

"I will only repeat myself once, Maia. I am more capable than you think. There are things about me you don't yet know, much as there are things about you I am still learning. So tell me without undue, if sweet, concern for my well being: do you want me to leave for good?"

Her eyes darted across his face, back and forth in consideration, lips parted in a pout. He pressed,

"Tell me to leave and never contact you again. And I will." Her eyes closed with a stressed exhale, her forehead sinking to his shoulder. The sudden pressure warmed the icicle daggers he'd been holding in his chest. Her gentle voice left them in puddles.

"No, that's not what I want. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply you're weak. I just don't want this mess to touch anyone else."

"Sometimes it's good to share your burdens with others. Makes the load lighter." A high strung laugh bubbled out of her, short and clipped.

"You're not my therapist."

"No, apparently I'm your boyfriend." She stiffened,

"If the shoe fits." And pulled herself back with a deep breath. Hands smoothed back the baby hair on her forehead, and she regarded him with a serious expression.

"It's an ex, that showed up here. Some people have a hard time letting go." Once more her words came calm. Matter of fact. How was the weather? It's storming outside. Statements of facts. Detached from emotion. But he understood now why dating made her nervous, why she would be afraid to say the words just then herself.

"I could see the preference to holding that to the chest. Ex-boyfriend shows up-"

"Ex-husband." His eyes widened.

"Oh."

"Yeah." _It was always about power._

"He's still trying to control you."

"Trying, being the operative word. I keep thinking it's over and getting proved wrong."

"I can see why it would be difficult to mention," he moved to place a hand over hers, "thank you for trusting me with this. There's still much to learn about each other as we move forward. If you will be patient with me, I would rather show than tell you. Some other time." She raised a skeptical brow, but after a fashion nodded slowly. Her sunken face etched with exhaustion.

"Your door is broken, and you need rest. Will you allow me to stay here this evening? On the couch. Between your room and the door." She didn't seem to comprehend, glancing down at the furniture in question.

"Your legs would hang off the end. It's not very practical. It isn't planned for."

"You could come to mine. Same offer. The apartment office won't be open until morning anyways."

"Ever the gentleman. I'm-" authoritative pounding pushed the door open. Police were standing on the other side.


	7. Chapter 7

Jonathan Crane had a girlfriend. Who didn't know his real name. Who teetered between constant apprehension and confident will-power. Who was both intellectually minded, and positively socially dense at the same time. He'd never had a girlfriend before, for a wide range of reasons. He'd also never had the police show up without a violent scene following. He was on his feet the moment the door swung open.

"Uh, sorry, didn't mean for-" The first officer looked like the clean cut guy the military produces. Short dirty blonde hair, muscles under the uniform, clean shaven with green eyes. Those eyes found the pool of blood under her table and he winced.

"We got a report of a stabbing. He says you did it. Wants to press charges." The guy had to be new, it didn't look like he bought the whole story looking at her. He could just walk in, but didn't. His partner, looked far more world weary. She was an older woman, dark skinned with short curled hair, and she wore a scowl deep enough for five long time officers. Her eyes swept over Jonathan and one hand move closer to her weapon. She recognized him as Maia spoke in a weary sigh,

"Of course he does. What story did my ex-husband spin this time? Let me guess, he says I'm crazy and attacked him out of nowhere when he was only trying to mend things between us?" Silence. Jonathan kept his gaze on the second officer. He twitched, and she had her gun in her hand. The younger officer took her lead, stepping back to put a hand on his own weapon, trusting whatever she saw that he didn't.

"Don't move. Jensen, call this in. We've got the Scarecrow here."

His eyes narrowed on the woman, Maia looking between the two with wide eyes.

"I keep up on the files, Jonathan, I can recognize you fine without the costume." He couldn't see Maia, but he could hear the recognition as she spoke the single word.

"Psychology." He took a deep breath, and spoke calmly with raised hands in plain sight.

"If you keep up to date, officer, then you would know I'm legally a free man. You have no reason to apprehend me."

"We've got a pool of blood a few feet from you and an attack nearby earlier tonight with your signature on it." He yet again replied with practiced ease.

"It's not my fault if others have acquired my tools of trade over the years. I'm retired." The officer didn't believe him. Jensen had hesitated, looking to her for instructions.

"The blood here has nothing to do with him." Maia spoke up, drawing the attention back to her.

"And you would testify to that?" The wheels in the officer's head were turning fast,

"Because two officers here can say otherwise. Who are they going to believe?" Bringing in a big name like the Scarecrow would look good on their records. Much better than the legal headache of a he-said-she-said domestic despute, which would drag out for at least six months of legal processes, probably longer. Jonathan was the easy target for the best results.

"Hold on, will everyone just calm-" Maia didn't have time to finish, her voice cut off when a whirl of long limbs managed to get Jonathan to the doorway and disarming the officer in a well practiced motion, his violent dancing unexpected in the small space. Jensen had hesitated, he was too slow to draw his weapon, Jonathan's second hand activated one of the canisters in his coat. A quick release of familiar green smoke began to fill the space, Jensen backed away with a coughing fit. The female officer was more prepared, holding her breath and swinging a foot for Jonathan's gut. He was used to taking hits, barely grunting at the impact, and once he had the gun in his hand he used the blunt end of it to strike at her temple. She went down.

"It's Jensen, the Scarecrow, he's, oh god-" the panicked young man tried to radio for backup, as he had been instructed to do, but he crumpled into a sobbing heap as Jonathan plucked the device from his hands and tossed it off the apartment railing. It all happened in seconds. Not minutes. Seconds.

Jonathan Crane lifted his head, and looked back through the dissipating green mist at a wide eyed Maia.

"What...what did you do?!"

"We have no time for this, Maia. Your apartment was already a crime scene. They were going to arrest you innocent or not, and call my arrest a nice bonus. You said it yourself, the cops don't care about the truth. Especially not in Gotham."

"And you," she directed the earlier fire at him, "you've been lying to me from the start."

"The only lie I told you was my first name. It was an obvious necessity at the time. Everything else has been genuine."

"Genuine. Do you know the meaning of the word? Do they know it? How many women is it now? Go on. Promise me it's all over again." Other women? What was she on about?

"Oh. The toxins. Of course. One moment." He crossed the room, drawing a capsule from one of his inner coat pockets, but she was on her feet instead of running.

"No, Nick, get out." An open palm strike came at his nose and actually made contact, if he didn't roll back with the blow by instinct she might have broken it. He was still close enough to snap the capsule and thrust it towards her nostrils. She was still swinging, furious rake of claws, but he managed to yank her arm in a twist that put her back to him and used her own arm in a form of choke hold.

"Breath, Maia." She struggled, inhaling the dust from the capsul as she did. He waited, held firm as she tried to fight. After a few futile seconds he felt her stiffen and stop trying to lash out.

"Welcome back. It's time to go. Come with me, or stay and end up in jail." Her response was sullen,

"Either way I end up in a cell."

"Pouting doesn't become you. I didn't put you in this position. But I can get you out of it."

"You didn't even let me try to reason with them."

"Some people are beyond reason. You already know that." She yanked herself away from him and turned a glare back.

"You. Lied. To. Me." She was really going to hold on to that? Here? Now?

"I'm sorry. But I assure you I won't lie going forward, and promise you the only untruth was a name. Nothing else. I meant it when I said I wanted to help you. I will only ask you once more. Please. Come with me." He held out a hand. She eyed it. He held his breath.

"I must be insane. This is it. All these years and I've finally lost it." Because she took his hand. And he wasted no time pulling her into a sprint.

"Leave your things. They can be replaced or collected later. We need to go before anyone else shows up." His long legs would mean he would outpace her, but she did her best to keep up and he managed to hold back just enough to let her. The rain soaked them through by the time they were down the stairs, thunder rumbling and another flash of lighting ahead. Neither of them paid the weather mind, the exertion of physical work keeping the cold temporarily away. They ran, and ran, and ran some more, until at last she had to yank to a stop, struggling to breath past burning lungs.

"It's not much farther, where we can lay low and you can get some rest." A manic laugh bubbled out of her that shortly became a gasp.

"A little further." She repeated it with the hollow tones she had before, and fell back into place. He slowed it to a jog, at least, and soon they were weaving through a small apartment building. He knocked on the door. Waited. Knocked a second time. He was about to knock a third when he heard the deadbolt on the other side.

"Hold your horses. I'm coming." The door opened to show a grumpy face on the other side, "Professor?"

"Hello Greg. Pardon the intrusion, I would not be here if it weren't necessary." Greg did a once over on the soaked Jonathan Crane, his eyes almost doubled when they found Maia. He quickly thought better of giving away that much emotion and returned to the tight lipped neutrally.

"You two better come in." He didn't sound happy about it, closed the door to undo the chain lock and reset-opened it, stepped aside to let them come in.

Greg's apartment was simple. A second-hand and well worn couch, coffee table, tv stand. He had been playing a consol game when they arrived, and had a bong on the table with several bags of chips and a few soda cans scattered about. The kitchen looked bare, batchelor lifestyle evident, and Star Wars movie posters lined the walls. Jonathan made no outward note about the impression the space provided. Maia was too tired to care.

"Place is a bit of a mess." Greg only apologized by half, eyeing the two.

"There's a shower in the back. My clothes won't fit either of you but they're not soaked." He didn't ask what had gone wrong. He didn't care. If it was important, he'd be told without needing to ask. Maia spoke with carefully cordial tones,

"Thank you. Sorry to intrude." Greg shrugged.

"You both look like hell. Crashing here, I take it?"

"If that's alright by you." He glanced at her, and nodded.

"She gets the bed. You can stay out here. The futon pulls out." He gave Jonathan a look that communicated there would be no arguing on this. Jonathan had seen the look a few times before, and shrugged an acceptance of terms.

"Very well, Greg."

Greg went back to his game, something fantasy based, leaving the two to make themselves at home. Jonathan motioned to the restroom.

"I'll find you something dry."

"I heard sleep."

"Out of wet clothes first." She barely nodded as he shrugged out of the dripping coat. She moved to the restroom, he moved to the room and found a closet with dirty clothes on the floor and clean ones hung. The biggest shirt there would practically be a nightgown on her. He went to pass it through the door to her, and not even a minute later she appeared. The oversized t-shirt came down past her hips, but didn't reach her knees. Exhaustion had taken it's toll, and she barely padded over to the bed before hitting it and passing out. Jonathan changed next, paused to throw a blanket over her, and sat beside Greg on the couch.

The screen showed an armored character running around a map, sword in hand. Greg popped a tab on a fresh coke and passed it to Jonathan. He accepted more out of guestly obligation than personal taste.

"She seems nice." There was an unspoken tension to those words.

"I don't intend to hurt her."

"She feel the same way?"

"We'll find out." Greg sucked in a breath. Killed an animated skeleton, and after the fight passed the bong into Jonathan's reach.

"I'll pass." Greg shrugged. Jonathan leaned his head back, and never felt it when he fell asleep.

—

He woke with a snap to attention, the rain still falling outside and apartment dark. He had wound up slumped over the couch arm, when he woke up Maia was seated in the center seat. She had a controller in her hand and a smile back on her lips. As if nothing had happened.

"Mornin' Sunshine." She saw him stir, and twisted her body with the controller as if it would help her character on the screen jump further. There was a side-scrolling game on the screen now, two sack sewn creatures jumping around a map. Greg was playing as well. Smoke had settled into the air in lazy drifts.

"How long was-"

"Four hours. I was up after two." She shrugged, hissed as her sock-puppet tumbled to it's death.

"All you, Greg."

"I got this." Without any hesitation or concern for impressions she took a hit of the bong from the table, offered it to him only for him to again shake his head.

"Suit yourself."

How did he fall asleep? Let alone stay asleep longer than she had? And through movement and switched video games? He ran a hand over his face, sitting up properly.

"As ever, you recover swiftly." He noted.

"Yup. That's me."

"We should probably talk. A lot happened in a small portion of time."

"I guess that's true." Her eyes followed the animations on the screen instead of turning his way yet. Greg made no comment, just pointed at the bedroom.

"We'll have three players to beat this level here in a few." She assured, standing to walk to the room in question. Crane rose to follow, hearing a quick assessment from Greg,

"I like her." And nothing more. Not as if approval was necesssary, but it was evidently provided.

He followed and found her sitting on the edge of the bed, legs crossed. The tv in the living room turned up in volume as he shut the door.

"Greg seems nice. Didn't know you had friends."

"Associates."

"Hired muscle." She stated facts. He paused, stood by the door in oversized clothes and wondered what the appropriate response was. He wound up settling for an open-palmed gesture.

"I'm not used to this kind of thing. I have no experience in it. My lifestyle hasn't allowed social calls." If he had expected the weed to dim her senses any, he was wrong.

"Thus, the fake name?"

"Would you have agreed to meet with me at all if you had known? Or seen only my reputation?"

"There's no point in asking what if. I know what I've seen beyond that, in fact quite a few things make more sense now."

A sigh escaped her, knees pulled up to her chest,

"Your reputation. Yeah, it's nasty. They say you're a brute, you know. Hiding behind intellect while your actions make you just another bully." That knocked the wind out of him worse than the physical blows he'd taken hours before.

"What?" he sounded surprised even to himself.

"Sadistic intentions. They're so common. Anger. Revenge. The need to feel powerful through hurting other people. I didn't see that when I've been with you. Have I been wrong?"

"I'm not a bully. I hate-"

"That's exactly what the Scarecrow is. Did you check on Amanda after you hit the convention? Did you know she was in the hospital? Did the others there do anything to deserve that?" It took him several breaths to even remember who she was talking about. And no, he hadn't. He didn't care. He didn't have to answer, she saw it.

"It was a job." He finally breathed.

"Nothing personal." She finished. He couldn't tell if she was upset or not. The words were delivered with a blank unhappy face, but the tones were flat.

He needed to turn this around.

"You're not angry? Your ex-husband has torn your life apart-"

"And you think I want revenge?"

"...don't you?" She let the question hang on the air between them. He felt himself start to squirm under the weight of it and willed himself to remain still.

"I'm sure some would call it that." She said at last, as calm as blue fire. It peaked his interest again.

"What would you call it?"

"Education." His cold eyes flit over her warm skin.

"Education." He repeated the word, and she nodded.

"Pain is an excellent educator. And what's the point in learning if you can't teach others?" He could kiss her. He suddenly wanted to so badly it hurt not to, but his body wouldn't move.

The ball of trusting, radiant sunshine, had given the impression of simplistic warmth. The radience that encourages growth. But sunlight could also blister the land, crack the dry earth, and set forests ablaze. Sunlight was not always wholesome, not always precious. He moved to the philosophical.

"We're saying the same thing in different ways. There are several versions of the Bible, they all say essentially the same thing." She picked up effortlessly,

"But those small differences have caused wars."

"Is that what we will have?" She thought about it. Actually thought about it.

"Depends. Are you the kind of man who needs the suffering of others to feel good about yourself? Is sadism what drives and fulfills your life?" He scoffed, crossed his arms.

"Of course not. My work is designed to help people overcome the limits of fear." She nodded once,

"But when lumped into the world of super-villains, it's adapt or die."

"Essentially. Yes." Another nod. He heard the same undercurrent from the painting date night, the same determination to overcome, but sharper.

"I'm good at adapting."

She stood up, crossed over to him with a steady pace. The long shirt brushed along her bare thighs as she walked, but he kept his focus on her face. She stopped and looked up at him with the slow burn behind her amber eyes. He instinctively dipped his head, slouched a bit so she didn't strain her neck as much. He barely had time to gasp when one hand came up to grip the neck of his shirt, his limbs instinctively began to flail towards self-defense, but she pulled him down to her in a kiss. His eyes stayed wide open, startled at the sudden press of skin to his, limbs unsure where to settle. He was still blinking when she pulled away, too unaccustomed to the contact to know how to behave or react. It happened so fast he didn't even process it right.

"Wait." She obliged him, not pulling away. His head was spinning. Was this actually happening? His spindly arms wrapped around her shoulders in the more familiar sensation of a simple hug, just holding one close. Her vice grip on the shirt eased. He pulled back after a moment, took a breath, and this time paid attention. One hand rested on her face, just below where a bruise was forming. Defensive wound that made him narrow his eyes, reminded of the obstacle that had dared to appear. Even if the man had only chased her into his arms all the faster, it was the principle of the thing.

"I could kill him." The words tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop them. It took her a moment before she realized what he was talking about.

"And take away my opportunity for growth? That's my monster to overcome and defeat."

This time he didn't hold back. He paid close attention to the simple sensation of her lips on his, the jolt of static electricity between them. It was such a simple action, but she leaned into it with an intensity he couldn't comprehend. He savored it, a taste he couldn't identify when she parted her lips with a sigh that fed him. He could pull her closer. He became acutely aware of her curves when she pressed to him, aware that he could pull the oversized shirt off her in a single motion. His free hand still wasn't sure where to settle, where to roam, and he pulled himself away before he could act on any of the ideas that had sprung so quickly to his head. She was smiling again, heat behind it the rest of the world didn't get to see.

"It took you long enough." She teased.

He could see the danger. How quickly hormones and base nature jumped in response to something so simple. It was the kind of thing that brought so many men to ruin, and for the first time he thought maybe he could understand why the population still hurled themselves towards it. Should he be afraid? Probably. Was he?

"Certain...others are going to see this as a weakness." He noted it idly, as fingertips trailed over her jawline in soft brush strokes. She didn't seem bothered by the thought.

"That, will be their mistake. Of the many things I'm afraid of, a challenge isn't on the list."

Jonathan Crane had a girlfriend. She knew his name. She knew what he did. She accepted him anyways. He wasn't pulling her into the criminal underworld. She'd been pushed there by another's hand, one who would find it the last mistake he ever made. It was better that way, she would see Jonathan as a fresh ally in the coming battles, instead of an obstacle to overcome

He wasn't sure where this was going or how things would end. But for right now, he felt the thrill of an unknown potential for the first time in years.

—

 **AN** : taking a break from this one to work on some other stuff. We're not done just yet folks! I appreciate comments and feedback, actually feel like this one is coming out pretty good. :)


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